Batman: City of Lights
by TheGlimmerTwins
Summary: Evil is a tangible thing. It is a woman cutting her wrists and pouring her tainted blood in someone's coffee. Evil is manipulating an obsessive compulsive patient with numbers. Evil isn't the fire and brimstone of Milton's dreams. It can be found within the halls and walkways of Arkham Asylum.


BATMAN: CITY OF LIGHTS

by

Vicky Voltaire and Iris Beacon

Chapter One: Prologue

**Rating:** T for now, some subsequent chapters will be M.

**Disclaimer:** All characters are the property of DC Comics. We're just borrowing them for our demented pleasure.

**Synopsis: **From the writings of one doctor at Arkham Asylum.

**Writer's note**: This series started out as a dare.

* * *

_The rain does not stop._

_From the personal files of Dr. Thaddeus Hamilton,_

_October 2012_

_9.43 PM_

Depending on who you ask, the rain can do one of two things. It can wash away the dregs and the provides an opportunity so that an individual may start anew and is a chance to bloom again. This is where we get the term "April showers bring May flowers."

And yet, the rain can also bring a torrent of undesirable conditions. These can be dirt, mold, or worse yet, landslides.

I am stuck at a crossroads. I have used tried and true methods to navigate these torrential waters, and usually I end up back at square one. Even when I experiment - trying a new method that worked at a convention in Geneva, for example - I might as well be nailing jell-o to the wall.

For twenty years, I have invested my time in analyzing the criminal mind. It's a labyrinth of contradictions and sideway stairs that even careful study and experimentation can never fully grasp. At least with biology, you have a physical sense of what is 'wrong'. In psychiatry, the science is not always precise. It would be easy to dismiss it as something deep within our primitive minds; that it is an act manifested out of pure predation. That it is the _id_ gone wild, and the superego gone split for Bermuda. That, however, would be like calling the Pacific Ocean a bunch of blue waters, while ignoring the secrets it holds.

This is what my life has become; a never ending Pandora's Box. I have learned that some personalities cannot be contained in a Petri dish and that some things cannot be analyzed under a microscope. My line of work should be classified as a 'science' and yet, it there are social aspects that are omnipresent and it is these factors that define custom. The pesky truth is that social custom is not always in a come and are forever changing, evolving. I prefer to refer to it as virus mutation.

In my experience, there is no difference between the host and the agent.

I'm not complaining. I know what I signed up for. I am merely acknowledging that even a 'prestigious' career like mine is far from what Hollywood would try to make of it. I am a Doctor, first and foremost. Some days, I might as well be a firefighter or a cop, because I do not know whether today will be my last day.

I do not work at John Hopkins or Cedars Sinai. The illnesses I am charged with containing are the ones that are invisible, and yet are very, very real.

Arkham Asylum once stood as the bastion for the very latest in mental health research. It was started in the 1920s by Doctor Jeremiah Arkham, and was a highly-respected institution in its day. The striking Gothic architecture cut a distinguished silhouette against the city sky; the staff was well-versed in then-extant treatment programs and methodologies. Some of the foremost mental health specialists in the world had interned there at one point or another.

Arkham Asylum stood on the cutting edge of psychiatric research; a shining example to the city, reassuring its population that we could cure the "invisible" diseases, the kind that manifest themselves in ticks, habits and ritual. It is a place where personal choice and habit blur into one. We are the stuff of dreams for social justice activists and at the same time, we are the nightmares of some of the most aggressive prosecutors.

Since then, time, amongst other factors, has turned Arkham into a dilapidated, tragic and obsolete institution that should have been razed to the ground years ago.

The only reason it remains in operation is because the prisons, even the ones as far away as California or the Pacific Northwest, would not take some of our more …. _well-known_ residents.

I cannot say that I blame them.

I am numb. I am tired, but I must soldier on. It's almost ten o'clock at night and I am about to finish my double shift.

Many doctors commit to double shifts out of some need for altruism, the emotional benefits of helping those who need assistance. I don't. I'm not here because 'I love my job'.

My reasons for being here are more complicated than that.

I would give someone like Freud nightmares if I told him about the things I have seen in my tenure here. For psychology graduate majors, the opportunity to sit in the very chair where I conduct my business is perceived as akin to the Holy Grail. This role has  
been mythologized by the media, and for the wrong reasons. Outsiders weaned at the teat of Hollywood, obsessed with Celebrity News Network, greedily imbibing the latest serial killer documentaries; all of them make me sick. This is not General Hospital. This is not a place that should be glamorized. It is one thing to study something out of curiosity. It is something else to fetishize it. They are fools, the lot of them.

My income allows me to attend two thousand dollars a plate charity events, wear imported suits from Milan and own a six-bedroom house in Bristol Heights, Gotham City's most exclusive suburb.

Even taking all this into account, the job is not worth it. I would retire to a monastery in the mountains if I could. Still, I doubt even years of spiritual cleansing will scrub some of the images burned into my brain.

Like the vulgar clarity of the first pornographic image you ever saw, these things graft themselves onto your landscape of memory. They're real; real as the hairs on a tarantula's leg. As hard to wipe away as the blood on some of these here walls. They have become a part of the history of this damned place, almost as much as the hieroglyphs on the pyramids.

And yet, some choose to ignore the ugly realities, so they might be perceived as 'artists'. My favorite interpretation: post modernists who argue that moral relativism has no center, and that everything is a shade of grey. That there is no absolute concept of evil; that evil is but a label that those with superior complexes try to project onto others.

I'm not a former man of the cloth who has foregone religious studies in favor of the medical field. I do not know what consecration is, but I can tell you what evil is.

As a man of science, I can tell you: evil exists.

Evil is seeing a bipolar man cut off his own tongue because another one convinced him that the aliens would get him if he did not do as he ordered.

Evil is when a woman cuts her wrist and pours her tainted blood into her doctor's coffee.

Evil is manipulating an obsessive compulsive disordered patient with numbers.

These incidents never made it outside of these walls, but they have been documented in a special case file that only I and the other head doctors are privy too. On the outside, Arkham is a place that houses the worst of the worst, and we trained medical professionals have it under control. But behind that iron doorknob that looks like a gargoyle's head, it might as well be a soccer match between the inmates and the doctors. The game never ends, and the only goal we the staff have is survival, from one night to the next.

Because of our strict 'no outside contact' policy, Arkham has been perceived in a myriad of ways. Some view it as the Pit of Hell, a place that only Dante and Sartre could only dream about. Others see it as the East Coast version of Los Angeles County Jail, only with a greater number of mental health 'specialists' and a far more infamous clientele. The truth is, I am here only because the recession gave me very little options.

Due to massive budget cuts, and because the state would sooner fund pointless and incomprehensible 'artistic' endeavors than pay its police force, we at Arkham have faced some difficulties.

In the last few years I have traveled all over the country. Because I did not want my daughter to grow up like an army brat, always on the move, lacking a stable home, we stayed. We will stay at least until she has graduated middle school.

After that, I am not sure. I entered the field over twenty years ago, a bright-eyed rookie who felt like he hit the jackpot. Now that I am here, I am jaded, I am numb, and I am here for the same reason a zoo requires a head director.

Were it not for little Emily, I would have thrown myself off of the Sprang Bridge long ago. She is the only reason I haven't chosen to take an early flight out of this mortal coil. My worst fear is that my experiences here at Arkham will impact upon her sense of well-being, either directly or indirectly. Whatever choices I made will reflect on her ten to twenty years from now. Still, even with my heart beating, I am robbing her of quality time with her father.

Would it make any difference?

Her mother is a Fellow at Gotham State, for her contributions to neurological research. We both have jobs that take time away from little Emily. I haven't noticed any unusual behavior, but I of all people should know better than to underestimate the power of what is going on under the water.

THAT is what you have to worry about, especially since the effects won't be felt until years down the line.

I open the drawer. I keep a small handgun there, ostensibly for self-defense. Just a flick of the finger muscles is all it takes to end this nightmare. I try not to think about it, as thinking clouds judgment. Thinking takes time. Thinking makes things complicated instead of simplifying them. Thinking makes things so grey, definition is lost. I put the gun back.

Another day, I think. Not today, and maybe not tomorrow either.

I have an appointment with Pamela Isley. Right now, she is improving in her cognitive processes. I try to be positive, but at the same time I am skeptical, especially after the last experiment. She showed signs of progress with her last doctor, Dr. Michael Combs. He worked with her for over eight months. Her brain showed a distinct endorphin rush when she was handed a small puppy; handed a cactus plant, her endorphin count remained stable.

Dr. Combs' goal was to demonstrate that Miss Isley could show compassion towards living things other than plants, extending to mammals and other sentient species. If our experiments were to succeed - or, as I would prefer to call it, 'improved' - it might have been possible to eventually introduce her to a human host. The experiment was called off when Dr. Combs found the three month old pup suffocated by vines, several rooms and three floors away from Ivy's cell.

Dr. Combs quit his job, and I believe was forced to seek counseling as a result of the incident.

In hindsight, it was clear to me that the procedure was a clear example of Isley manipulating Dr Combs, after he failed to be charmed by her.

Not all are cut from the same cloth, however. I think of the time Emily showed me the drawing she made of the Catwoman. A jewel thief and purloiner of other precious and rare items, she is not a real threat except, perhaps, to employees of the Gotham Museum, Tiffany's, or Harry Winston's. Like the Batman, she is more of a quasi-mythical pseudo-celebrity. She has never been caught, but rumor has it she is quite sane, so even if she was captured, the likelihood that she will be sent here is slim to none.

Her, I am not too concerned about. It's her 'colleagues' that have entrapped my attention, my life.

I recently had to discharge a nurse. She had been conducting a biannual exam on the Joker. She was considered his "favorite" on account of her resemblance to his favorite comedienne. She had been checking his jaw line when he snapped down his mandibles and twisted around like a crocodile doing a death roll. Mary Hart lost some of her carpal bone, as well as a good chunk of muscle and skin.

She had been in close quarters with the clown, and as far as I know had never engaged in 'unprofessional conduct' around him. I wish I could say that I was surprised, but that would be a lie.

The Joker's motive, as he explained it, was that the kitchen no longer served chocolate chip waffles. The state budget had been cut, meaning a reduction of more 'exotic' culinary fare and a reversal to the menu used by most state prisons. Corn bread, mashed potatoes, chicken fingers and milk have become standard. Fresh vegetables have been replaced by and large by canned peas. The most 'exciting' thing we have is Thursday Corned Beef Hash day. You can count on the Mad Hatter being on his best behavior around lunchtime.

This incident did not make it into the reports conducted by the National Institute for Mental Health because we have a lackey, a Doctor Thomas Downes. Downes is responsible for several hospitals in the county, and it is he who answers to the state standards office. I was fortunate enough to have Thomas as a friend back in college. A good man, who's always willing to do you a favor. I told Downes about the incident with the dog.

I also told him about the time the Joker persuaded a man who had OCD to wash his hands so obsessively that the man bled to death. His hands were so scraped he could not even clench them. According to a nurse, the Joker did whatever he could so that the man had reason to expunge himself from the germs. The Joker put mucus in the man's pillow, 'relieved' himself on his bed and put urine in his food.

I didn't tell them about one particular incident, where we had to dismiss one doctor for malpractice after she tried to wean Two Face from his coin by humiliating him like a toddler.

Downes did not include any of this in his final review. He believed in second chances, and happily accepted the official line that we were caught in bad times, just like a few other places.

The powers that be know we are understaffed, and that is what gives our most notorious an easy escape. Fewer pairs of eyes mean less control. In truth, nobody really wants to work here anymore, other than the desperate, the cavalier, and the naïve types with a savior complex. Newly-minted doctors from Gotham University - some of the best and brightest young minds in our field - are choosing to work anywhere but Arkham. The sad story of the former Dr Quinzel – herself amongst those best and brightest, once – casts a long shadow.

One can hardly blame them.

Our extra funds have been redistributed towards garden and sewage maintenance, the addition of new floors for our ever-increasing population, and a fresh coat of paint. "We need to have a spruced up image," Doctor Evelyn Campbell said at one meeting. "We cannot go around looking like we're stuck in the eighteenth century!"

Given the practices and things I have seen here, we might as well be!

I will be blunt here. It's a waste to hire more doctors to 'treat' and 'diagnose' these patients, because they are not really sick at all. "Sick" is a label that the experts - sitting in their boardrooms, never deigning to descend from their ivory tower and experience what this place is like for themselves – prefer to attribute to anyone they cannot categorize, because it is easier to look down their noses and point fingers instead of admitting that their methods do not really work. Rather, the attendant "psychoses" and "strange behaviors" of our patients are nothing more than manifestations of narcissistic sociopathy.

And you cannot treat narcissism.

Our society is full of narcissistic sociopaths, from the boardrooms to the banking halls to Hollywood and everywhere in between. Some are more obvious than others.

And here I am, in charge of the cream of the crop.

The biggest reason why Downes did not put down the Hart incident in his final review has a darker undertone.

Years ago, I remember Dr Joan Leland confiding in me about her then-intern, Dr Quinzel; how the young woman had made passing reference to the "dark glamour" of working at Arkham, alarming Joan. Initially, I brushed it off as pointless nitpicking; Dr Quinzel was smart, young, attractive and driven, and it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that Joan might have been feeling the pinch just a little bit.

Little did I realize how strongly those words would come back to haunt us all.

Although the state has faced massive budget cuts, we have actually fared rather well in keeping Arkham Asylum running. The media enjoys likening the place to a scab on the cityscape, or a relic from past times, but at the same time, they are only too aware that they, too, are complicit in keeping Arkham Asylum alive.

Put it this way: Mexico is a poor country. But thanks to the Mayan and Aztec ruins, tourist dollars are pumping into the country's national budget. Cambodia – ravaged for years by the Khmer Rouge – nevertheless attracts millions of visitors each year to its famous temple of Angkor Wat.

Forget the charity balls and playboy billionaires. Forget the superb museums, the super tall skyscrapers, the galleries, fine theatres and shopping. Gotham has but _one_ big thing going for itself, and you've probably guessed by now exactly what that is.

Gotham City may bear a superficial resemblance to both Metropolis and New York, but it is as unlike either of them as night is to the day. This is a city of shadows, of secrets. And it's because of Arkham Asylum – that, and the hope that one might catch a glimpse of the Batman during their night-time travels - that we have money rolling into the city and state.

INTO the city and state.

The Joker, Poison Ivy and Two Face are our bread and butter. The biggest reason they have not received the injection or a trip to the chair is because _they_ are Gotham's celebrities. An alternative Hollywood perceived through a glass darkly, only nobody is acting here.

Shuttle bus tours are making twice-weekly stops before the famous wrought-iron gates. Nearby hotels are getting more and more visitors who want a glimpse. It's said we're rivaling Los Angeles for these types of visits.

The biggest clue, however, came from a colleague who went to a recent City Hall meeting to discuss the Gotham council budget and the implications for the Asylum. He did not get the mayor's attention, but assured me that we have allies in the state controller and the city financial manager and that they are not alone in seeing a benefit in keeping the Asylum open. He said something that gave me chills, yet at the same time made me wonder if I am in the middle of a social revolution of sorts, one where the ethics are yet evolving. India makes its money from tourists that wish to visit the Rhanthambhor National Park. The livelihood of many inhabitants relies on the visitors who put food on the table for the numerous baggage carriers, drivers, guides and local experts. I am reminded of why I have turned away some 'enthusiastic' applicants who were attracted to the 'exotic history' of this place. They were better off feeding food to dangerous animals without the proper training.

It is an attraction.

It is a madhouse.

It is our bread and butter.

It is a nightmare.

I am tired. I am numb.

The rain does not stop.


End file.
